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<title>does the venom act faster if it’s poisoning the snake ? by spadedjade</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308146">does the venom act faster if it’s poisoning the snake ?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadedjade/pseuds/spadedjade'>spadedjade</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Crowley has Trauma, Idiots in Love, M/M, No Beta, break up scene ? i guess, from something he doesn’t understand, good luck y’all, i love this fucking demon so much, idiots that don’t know they’re in love, if alpha centauri was more dramatic, my god, seriously i think i was going through something, they still haven’t had The Talk, this is just crowley protecting himself, this is just pain, tw demons in pain will do anything to save themselves, we saunter vaguely downwards like Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:20:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadedjade/pseuds/spadedjade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley feeling himself getting too close to the fire (the fire is a metaphor for his burning love and desire for Aziraphale) and going fuckfuckfuckshitfuckshitfuckfuckhelpfuckabort. This is them hurting, and not knowing how to act because they’re both STUPID, so they hurt each other. And themselves. And everyone within a 10 mile radius.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>does the venom act faster if it’s poisoning the snake ?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley hisses, literally hisses at him, eyes darkening even behind the sunglasses. Then he speaks, his words quiet and venomous and cruel.</p><p>“You. Don’t. Know. Me. You never will. Now leave. Me. Alone. Just leave. For good. Or I swear to Chr— G— to SOMEBODY, I Will do what was ordered of me all those years ago. Remind me, how do you feel about hellfire ? My dear, <em>dear</em> angel.”</p><p>He’s never spoken to his angel with more acid, more fury, and never wished to take it all back so fast.</p><p>Aziraphale smiles, weakly, though his chin begins to quiver and the round blue eyes betray all of the pain he feels. He thought he’d known, deep down, that the rejection was coming - it only stood to reason - but that hardly helps now. He thinks his heart may very well shatter.</p><p>He won’t allow himself to weep, not in front of Crowley. The Lord Herself knows he’s already humiliated himself enough.</p><p>So he turns, clumsily, eyes beginning to brim with tears, and Crowley is seized with a sudden panic, a desperate yowling thing that scratches at the insides of his throat as his angel (not his, never his, never again) walks away. He lunges frantically, nerves jangling with a terror he hasn’t felt since the Fall, and his hand finds its way onto Aziraphale’s broad white shoulder.</p><p>There is silence, then a —</p><p>“What, Crowley.”</p><p>Not a question but an empty statement. Flat. The whisper is colourless. It can’t trust itself with emotion, can’t trust itself not to burst with the shame and the desperation and the wild, wild hope that has, against all odds, taken root in Aziraphale’s chest and blooms now with each passing second.</p><p>Crowley just... stands there, arm outstretched. Needing a salvation, unsure how to vocalise it, unsure of anything, especially his feelings for this cursed, blessed angel. He starts to speak, low and uncertain, and then breaks.</p><p>“Ngk— um.”</p><p>He tries again, and all that comes out is air, and then it's harsh, and formal, and just plain wrong.</p><p>“No. Nothing. Sorry to stop you, erm, angel—. Erm. Aziraphale.”</p><p>As he faces away, watching the light dance through the shop windows, the tears course down Aziraphale’s face in total silence. They run down his neck, into his shirt collar, onto the tartan bow-tie.</p><p>And he hears it, now, in Crowley’s voice - “Tartan !” with that little delighted, derisive laugh that never takes anything seriously, that loves to ridicule and mock and make fun, but only ever gently. Only ever lightly. Oh, Aziraphale knows the demon as he knows his own self, and in all these 6000 years Crowley has never employed pain, has never cut or sliced so deeply with his jibes and jokes and insouciant laughter as to cause harm. No matter what he says. He has simply refused. Refused, until now, apparently, to hurt - others. He’s never had the same compunctions for himself.</p><p>And it does hurt, oh, it burns, but the angel thinks of kindnesses, and treats, and protection from pain and suffering that he has - oh, he has taken all for granted ! and he has ignored, over and over, the serpent’s wiles, and now what ! And now he is losing him, and losing a part of himself, and he can't seem to stop it from happening ? After all, how could he turn now, and say to Crowley, who is so still and silent behind him —</p><p>‘Now, you stop this nonsense, you Silly Demon, and let’s have lunch.’</p><p>How in Heaven could he ?</p><p>So they stand, a tableau spread out in a bookshop entryway. Aziraphale unable to move. Crowley unable to let go. Unable to tell his best friend, his— (not his, never his, never any more)— to leave him behind. Is the pain worse if it never has to be faced ? Please, he pleads with the Voice inside his head, can’t they just stay here, perfectly quiet, for all eternity ?</p><p>Perhaps they could try. Perhaps they can be together after all, could just. Stop.</p><p>The day goes on, time moves forward, as it always does, and the sun and the stars and the world keep moving around them. Still they wait, hushed and straining and hoping for someone to... what ? To leave, or move, or make a decision ?</p><p>The angel and the demon, locked in battle... They stand frozen, if time does not, because it's all they know how to do and this, at least, feels familiar.</p><p>Until the angel begins to think that - really, is this so bad ? if he can feel the demon’s hand on his shoulder, if he can sense that faintest of hellish presences ? Perhaps it is fine. Perhaps it doesn’t hurt so much, really—</p><p>But as Aziraphale's heart flutters underneath the demon's outstretched fingers, Crowley’s face hardens and sets into marble. Flesh calcifying into stone, carving out the grooves of his face with painful precision. Because he can feel what the angel thinks is so cleverly hidden - every sob, every hiccup that Aziraphale tries to suppress. He feels them reverberate through him, into that chasm that gapes open, that place that feels this loss-that-hasn’t-quite-happened-just-yet like a wound, like a sword in his gut.</p><p>He feels his insides pour themselves out, and watches his immortal soul as it lies before him bleeding onto the floor, aching for something it can't have. He feels his body failing him, and those three words clawing at his throat, and can’t breathe.</p><p>Then, trapped in this nightmare of his own creation, he wrenches away, and feels the angel begin to turn, and oh, the demon is more afraid now than he’s ever been.</p><p>He runs, and his tears run with him and the grief follows close behind as his breath began to fail and still he runs.</p><p>He runs, and he surpasses what Earthly limits he ought to keep to, coming dangerously close to burning up his corporeal form, this precious body so smothered by an angel's careless touch. Eventually, of course, he comes to a stop. He has to. How could he leave it now, this last reminder of his— of Aziraphale ?</p><p>Crowley collapses. The ground, whatever ground it is, is rough, and it scratches at him, but as his racing mind finally slows, he is grateful for the numbness of sleep, and the relief that it will bring.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so listen. i might write a reconciliation scene. i want to so badly. also might write a ‘what the fuck happened that could have possibly lead to this’ scene. hmm. thinking.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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